


Beautiful

by olivemartini



Series: Solangelo [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Romance, solangelo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7755256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will keeps telling Nico how perfect he is, how beautiful and brave and kind.</p><p>Nico doesn't have the heart to tell him that the beauty of death is just an illusion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful

Will keeps calling him beautiful.

It's whispered against his skin at night, with Will's lips brushing his collar bone and the green lighting on his cabin throwing shadows across the walls, and Nico just wants to melt into them (or maybe into Will, he isn't sure).  It's thrown nonchalantly into the silence when they're sitting with their hands intertwined by the lake, sun shining on Will and making him look like a god, his thumb tracing Nico's knuckles.  Will says it with his fingers carding through Nico's hair, when Nico tries to do to much and ends up in the infirmary looking like death warmed over.  Nico doesn't get tired of him saying it, wants to get it in writing or something, maybe record it so he can listen to the words whenever he wants, even though its not true.

There is nothing beautiful about death and darkness.  There is a morbid fascination, yes, a bit of mysteriousness that he might be able to work to his advantage sometimes, but there is nothing beautiful about it.  Death is wilted flowers lying in front of abandoned grave stones, skeletons with dirt stained fingers and gaping eye sockets, screams of the damned and the aching of the average.  It is choking on last words and blood staining clothes, mothers burying their children and little boys growing up orphans, destruction and carnage.  If there is one thing that death is, though, it's fair.  It comes for everyone. 

Nico thinks that its only fair that he warns Will about his delusions, to soften the blow for himself when Will looks over at him one day and decides that he probably needs to get his vision checked.  So the next time Will says it (he's sitting in Nico's lap, whispering praise into his ear like its a secret only he can hear ( _and gods, Nico doesn't want to stop but he needs to draw the line somewhere_ ), Nico sits back and informs him that no, he really isn't, and it might be better for everyone concerned if he would realize that now. 

Will sits back, confused.  "You're not what?"

Nico almost rolled his eyes.  "Beautiful.  Gorgeous.  Those things you were saying a few seconds ago.  I'm not."

"Of course you are!"  Will smiled, like he thought that this was just Nico fishing for compliments, but when Nico didn't say anything, he sat back farther.  "You're beautiful.  Every part of you."

"I'm death, Will.  I'm a ghost.  There's nothing beautiful about a boy who lives in shadows.  The sooner you realize it the better." 

"You aren't death!"  Will's voice was a little too loud, considering the fact that the cleaning harpies were right outside and he was most definitely not allowed to be in here, but he didn't show any signs of calming down.  "You just.... specialize in it."

"My specialties include speaking with the dead and raising small armies of skeletons."  Will was floundering for words, flustered, which somehow made him look even cuter. "There's nothing beautiful about darkness."

"Sure there is."  Will gave him and shove, and Nico fell back onto the bed.  Truthfully, Will wasn't strong enough to make Nico do anything he didn't want to, but he'd keep up the charade if it meant Will lands on top of him, sprawling across the bed and hogging up the sheets.  "You can only see stars at night.  There are fireflies, and moths, which are pretty.  Owls come out at night.  And campfires are only really any good after sunset, which means there are sing a longs and smores, and we had our first kiss at night, which was pretty beautiful if I do say so myself, not to mention the actual color black, which comes in all different shades and can be quite soothing.  But that's not really what we're talking about, is it?"

"I guess not." 

"You.  Are.  Beautiful."  With each word, Will kissed him.  Nico wondered if he meant to kiss right where his scars were, or if it had just gotten to the point where Will had them all memorized and it was force of habit.  "There.  Is.  Nothing.  Wrong.  With.  You."   He knew that.  He really did, but it was so much easier to believe when Will was saying it.  "I.  Love.  You."

There are other things after that.  More kissing (and other things), with more whispered words and mumbled promises, until its just the two of them in the dimly lit cabin.  It's not until then that Will starts talking again, and Nico realizes it's going to be a long time before either of them forget this conversation.  "You aren't death.  You're powerful.  You can raise armies and split the earth, you can travel across the country in a matter of seconds.  You helped save the world, twice.  And gods, Nico Di angelo, if you really think you're ugly, you're blind.  I could fill a book with everything I love about you."

"Well, at the very least, you should be writing me a poem."

Will doesn't give this a response, but Nico can tell he's smiling.  "You're not death, Nico.  I know you think you are, but you're aren't.  None of your powers have anything to do with dying, just what comes after, and I think that's pretty cool, if a bit intimidating."

"Then what am I?" 

"For starters?"  There's definitely a smile on Will's face now.  Nico can hear it.  "Mine."

 

 

 

When he wakes up the next morning, he's all alone, but there's a piece of paper beside him on the bed. 

_I once knew a beautiful boy with pretty brown eyes,_

_who sings encores to the shadows and shouts at night skies,_

_With an artist's hands and olive skin,_

_I think I might just be in love with him._

It's not exactly a literary masterpiece, but Nico hangs it up on the cabin mirror.  It only takes him five minutes for him to have it memorized.


End file.
